CHAPTER III.OUR FIRST MUNITION FACTORY.
During the summer of 1918 the threat of Conscription hung over the land, and young and old flocked to the ranks of the Volunteers. It is safe to estimate that at that time nine-tenths of all able-bodied Irishmen between the ages of sixteen and fifty were Volunteers of a kind; while the women had their association—Cumann na mBan—and the boys had theirs, the Fianna or Boy Scouts, all preparing to be our auxiliaries. As most of our officers were in jail on one charge or another, we who were out were kept working day and night. All the time I felt enthusiastic, for I saw in Conscription a glorious chance of uniting our own people. Though poorly armed we were determined to fight; and I believed that if the fight came the survivors would be united in their purpose, and to me a united Ireland of two million people would be preferable to an Ireland of four and a half million divided into three or four different factions.
Meantime, though the Conscription Act had become law, England, realising our determination, postponed its enforcement for a few months, in order to give us an opportunity of enlisting voluntarily. We went on with our preparations, and became all the more daring. Sometimes it was both bewildering and amusing to the public to witness our manœuvres.
More than once, for example, in sham battles we attacked or defended Tipperary town, and actually proclaimed certain roads or streets as “military areas,” where British soldiers or police, as well as civilians were forbidden to enter during the “operations.” These operations were carried out by a few hundred Volunteers, while the town was occupied by a garrison of over a thousand British soldiers. On such occasions we had no display of arms, though a few of our number might for special reasons have their revolvers in their pockets.
It soon became evident that England was wiser than to try conscripting us. The threat gradually faded away, and so too did our great army! But the small number that remained was of more use. They meant to fight for Independence. The others had been only thinking of saving themselves from the trenches of France, and believed with the old political leaders that Ireland’s freedom was not worth the shedding of a drop of blood. As my subsequent actions showed, I held a different view.
At this time, as I have already explained, Sean Treacy was enjoying the luxury of a hunger-strike in Dundalk Jail. He had been thirteen days without food, and we feared they intended to let him die. We who were outside felt that we should do something without delay. I got a brain wave. Why not capture a Peeler, bring him off to a safe hiding-place, and put him on forcible hunger-strike, and keep him as a hostage for Sean’s safety? I discussed the plan with some of the others: they were favourably disposed; and as we knew that a few policemen regularly patrolled the railway line near the Limerick Junction every evening, we decided they should be our hostages. All preparations were made, and our hiding-place up in the mountainous district on the Limerick-Tipperary border was selected. Forty men were mobilised to carry out the job; but for once the policemen failed to patrol the line. Later I found out that the scheme had been turned down by the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a secret organisation which included the most reliable of the Volunteers, and which practically controlled the Volunteer Army. After that I severed my connection with the I.R.B.
Sean Treacy was released in July, 1918. When he came home he was full of plans for organising. I had had an overdose of it in the months that he was away, and from my experience I was more infavour of starting a fight at once than of trifling further with organising. Sean would have his way, and we agreed to differ. I at once started a “munition factory” in partnership with my friend Patrick Keogh. Many a lively dispute we had on various points, some important, some otherwise, but as soon as Sean appeared he always poured oil on the troubled waters.
I must give you a description of our factory, lest the reader be picturing an Irish replica of the Krupp works at Essen. The building itself was a small rural cottage owned by Tom O’Dwyer, of the Boghole. Three rooms were let to Denis O’Dwyer, of Dervice. Both he and the owner were well-known characters in Tipperary. Our equipment was of the crudest kind, for we had no machinery. But it was a simple matter to make ordinary black gunpowder. We also turned out crude hand grenades, which, by the way, had to be ignited by a match before being thrown, so you can imagine the risks if these had to be brought into action on a windy or a rainy night. At this time, too, we collected every available cartridge, including sporting cartridges for shot guns, and these were refilled with buckshot. Keogh and I always quarrelled as to whether it was better to put four or eight grains of lead to the cartridge. The reader can easily imagine the effect on a poor devil who might get the full charge of one of these refilled sporting cartridges.
Though most of our raids for arms had been carried out by this time, we still found occasion for an expedition of the kind from time to time. My first encounter with the enemy was one night while I was returning from a raid.
A small number of us, including Sean Treacy, were cycling home from Tipperary, when my bicycle went flat, and I had to dismount to pump it up. I ordered the others to go ahead, saying I would overtake them. On their way they passed the police barrack on the outskirts of the town. It would seem that the police heard them passing the barrack, and came out to have a look round; or else they were actually on the road when the men passed, and, with their usual courage, were afraid to confront the six Volunteers. Anyhow, I neither heard nor saw anybody when I had pumped up my bicycle, until I was suddenly pulled off by a burly Peeler. In my left hand I carried a small iron bar for forcing locks, so I tried its effect on his head. The bar got the better of the argument. I then drew my revolver, and covered the group of peelers. “Surrender, or I shoot,” shouted their officer. “Put up your hands, or I’ll shoot the lot of you,” I replied. They complied with my order.
I then stepped backwards, rolling my bicycle, and still keeping my gun levelled at the peelers, until I reached a laneway. I dashed up the lane,mounted my bicycle, and escaped from the town not a moment too soon. The alarm was quickly raised, and the whole town was surrounded, and every street and lane searched. But I was safe in my factory with my comrades.